A/N: Whoever 'me' was that reviewed my ficcie 'The Snowglobe Effect'... this is for you.
There were some things that prescription drugs could not fix.
There were some things that expensive scotch couldn't fix (though House admitted those were few and very far between).
He could smell the snow.
For a moment, he regarded the little orange bottle (the source of all of his power, if he were a super hero) and glanced at the bottle of Dewars, the amber liquid sloshing invitingly in the bottle. "I go down smooth," it whispered to him, "Me and your little friend over there will make it all go away..."
"Nothing makes it all go away," he muttered at the two vices through his fingers. If he'd believed that, he would have thrown the pretty bottle at the wall and listened to the pleasing shatter of glass. He would have watched as the liquid sluiced down the white walls to pool on his floor. But he didn't believe that, so with one hand he flicked the little white cap off of his Vicodin and with the other, he snagged the nearly-full bottle of alcohol.
He was lost, lost in his own head, lost in the swirl of snow outside his window. He was lost in her and that was the real problem.
The annoying 'click, click' of heels had ceased much earlier, and as the hours trickled by House became more assured that he could be left to his solitude.
He didn't bother with a glass, just tipped the bottle back and took a swig before popping a pill in and swallowing it with another swig. Mixing alcohol and prescription drugs was bad, he knew that; he just didn't care. He didn't have enough presence of mind to care in that moment.
Leaning back in the worn leather, he kicked his feet up onto the desk and began to fiddle with his iPod. He quickly bypassed Aerosmith, Led Zepplin and the Stones and went straight for The Who. He pressed the bottle to his lips and allowed his eyes to fall closed as his play list began it's marathon run.
Sometime, in the middle of ZZ Top, the door to the Department of Diagnostics swung slowly open. House heard the faint but distinct creak of the hinge but made no move to even bat an eyelid. "I cannnnnn smell you, Clarice," he nearly slurred, head lolling against the chair back. To anyone else he would have looked to have been relaxing but to
Cameron... well...
"You cannot," Cameron muttered, the smile evident in her voice.
House turned his head and glanced up and over at her, carefully looking at her up and down. "No, I can't, but you're impressed by my knowledge of pop culture, aren't you?
"Maybe," came the slight warning from the door. "Maybe you've had enough?" She at least had the decency to ask him is he was smashed instead of outright thinking it. Too bad he was indeed, three sheets to the proverbial wind. He swayed in his seat a bit, blinked at her and shook his head.
"I," he assured her, tongue wetting his lips in a manner in which she wished wasn't attractive but was, "I am just fine Miss Allison Cameron. I assure you that this bottle was half empty when I... yeah..."
"Yeah," she said, arms crossed over her chest, smile on her lips. She slipped into the office, walking slowly. She'd lost the lab coat hours ago and House tilted his head a bit more to really gaze at how the red of her blouse made her look pale... very pale.
Licking his lips again, but finding no moisture, he managed to spit out, "You're very pale."
"Thanks," and that earned him a roll of her eyes and a quirk of her mouth and cheek.
"And you have very small breasts," he continued, squeezing his eyes shut at the onslaught of headache. She was simply too good for him.
A laugh emerged from her throat and though he wanted to see it happen, the lamp at his side was casting far too much light over the room. "I don't hear you complaining," she said immediately, the snark firmly present in her voice.
"I just did!"
Cameron's tongue snuck out and winked at him from the corner of her lips and he wished he was a bit more sober so he could stand up and take it between his teeth. But, seeing as how he couldn't make the room stop spinning that would be pretty much impossible.
"Come on, I'll drive you home."
House sat up quickly. He then quickly regretted it. He weighed his options; he could wretch all over the floor or he could bitch her out. He chose the latter. "I'm not leaving Betty in underground parking all night!"
"You named the car? I can't believe you named the car."
"Damn straight I named the car, she's amazing. She's gorgeous." House paused for a minute and looked from the bottle of scotch to Cameron. "You're gorgeous."
Again, she laughed, the lovely tinkling sound of it easing some of the pain behind his eyes. "We've established that many times before, now let me drive you home."
"I said Betty isn't staying here the night. I don't trust those guys down in neurosurgery. They're crafty! They touch peoples's brains. People's brains. Damn."
Standing up, Cameron rounded the desk and pressed her hands against House's shoulders. He sat back in the seat
after a quick moment of resistance. Gently, she settled herself down on his lap, still keeping some of her weight balanced on the balls of feet. Her hand meandered down his chest, over the crest of his belt to his pocket.
She dug inside easily and retrieved his keys. "I'll drive Betty, I promise I'll be careful," she insisted playfully.
His eyes, though a bit sluggish, held hers hard. "Cameron, that car is-"
"I just want to feel my hair blow in the wind," she teased, her lips a fraction of an inch from his.
"It's January," he ground out through gritted teeth. She was playing with him; now wasn't the time. He was simply too drunk and too tired, but oh the way she pressed her lips to his chin, he forgot pretty much everything in the word.
"Still," she whispered tight against his skin, and even amongst all the imperfection they were perfect. Just for a second. "Let's go home."
She was going to get him sober; she was going to drive the back roads home.